“No,” I sobbed. As he got worked up, asking who messed with me, I could only muster a few words between sobs.

“Texas … it’s just so … weird,” I cried, and he held me to his pearl snapped-chest, despite his obvious confusion.

I’d been living in Texas only a short time, just long enough to realize that I wasn’t in Northeast Ohio anymore. One night, I had a few too many Shiners and walked from the Logon Cafe to the former Alibi’s, a country Western bar that was later gutted by fire and never re-opened.

The music, the dance floor etiquette, the rhinestone jeans — I suddenly felt more out of sorts than I ever had. I’d have given anything, in that moment, for a pierogi and a Yankee accent.

And so I cried. I cried a bunch.

When I left that night, trudging under the I-10 overpass (I do not recommend this) and back to my empty Old Town apartment, I felt better. I’d admitted the truth: That I was a long way from home, and there was no going back now. Might as well buy a pair of Justins and lean into it.

When I encountered the blog NYC Crying Guide — “The best/worst places to cry in New York City” — I started to think about all the Beaumont places that are conducive to public sobbing.

NYC Crying Guide is filled with big city cry-spot suggestions like Build-A-Bear (“I built the perfect nurse-firefighter bear and all the employees completely ignored the fact that I was crying during the whole building process.”) and Bank of America (“A very average, basic, no-frills, in and out place to cry.”)

What would my Beaumont crying guide look like? This list is easy:

The drive-through line at the Dowlen Starbucks — Go ahead, get it all out — you’ve got at least a 20-minute wait anyway.

The Grill — Have you ever eaten a bone marrow canoe sprinkled with black salt? Their high-end service means my waiter was equipped with several backup cloth napkins after my food-ecstasy tears soaked through the first one. Real pros over there.

The Boomtown Film & Music Festival — every year, every film, every time. I may have only shed a small tear when I saw Daniel Baldwin abducted by aliens at this year’s fest, but something about a well done independent film makes me well up like every mom at every wedding ever. Why am I crying? Because Hollywood sucks, that’s why. Enjoy Meet the Fockers 1 through 30.

CVS — What do you mean my insurance doesn’t cover allergy medication? Why does everything about adulthood have to be so difficult?

Chik-fil-A — Hell, yeah I’ve cried in the parking lot of Chik-fil-A. After two of my favorite local, family owned restaurants closed in one week and I spotted a line out the door at Chik-fil-A, it suddenly dawned on me: Waaah.

Any restaurant that serves crawfish with fake melted butter — Your mothers would be ashamed of you. I’ll need three more pounds, please. And pass the napkins.